


One Little Loveliness

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Child England, Dark Imagery, Dreamsharing, FACE Family, M/M, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12294252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: One night, France finds himself in a nightmare. But something is not quite right. The terrible dream isn't in his own mind... it's in the mind of the man sleeping beside him. England.[Domestic FrUK.]





	One Little Loveliness

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem called 'A Dream Lies Dead' by Dorothy Parker.
> 
> What's your worst fear, Mr. England?

France slipped into bed, sighing with weary relief as the goose-down duvet settled over him like a pleasantly weighted cloud. He loved this bed, moulded to his body after decades of use—not just sleeping, of course. He loved this duvet, so soft and just heavy enough to feel comforting without becoming restrictive. And, most of all, he loved the man on the other side of the bed, already asleep with his head curled downward, knees bent and arms folded like a child in the womb. For all England’s huffing and puffing, he still slept like a little puppy. He looked so cute in his sleep, the grumpy lines of his face eased away by the peace of slumber. France lightly traced a bushy eyebrow and smiled sleepily—but lovingly—when England gave a soft grunt and nuzzled deeper into his pillow. France rested his head on his own pillow and put a gentle arm around his lover, whispering, _“Bonne nuit, mon amour.”_

As he fell into the darkness of sleep, the black took shape into a jagged, ramshackle facsimile of England’s mansion, the very building they were sleeping in. What was once stately—crisp shingling, sharp triangular peaks, pristine windows, tidy brickwork—was now dilapidated, malevolent. Bricks crumbled, shingles hung ragged. The windows were only barely visible in the gloom; no light came through them.

France stood on the front steps of the mansion, bewildered. Why was he outside, and why was everything so awful-looking? This was clearly a dream—lucid dreams were not unknown to him, he rather enjoyed them, particularly when they took an erotic turn—but it was unlike any he’d ever had before. Something felt extremely _off_ , but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

As France stepped into the foyer, the floorboards creaked as though the place was a ship rocking in the sea. The wallpaper was peeling, the floor was a mess of nameless debris, and the chandelier’s bulbs were mostly out, though some flickered weakly with a faint buzzing sound. The poor lighting made the place look even worse, sickly. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm—something bad—was coming.

France held his breath, straining his ears to listen. A quiet whimpering? It seemed to be coming from beneath one of the end tables. It used to hold a vase of flowers and a photo of the family: France, England, America, and Canada. It was rare to catch England smiling, but they’d managed it. Now the photo and the vase were gone, with only a few scattered shards of glass hinting at their past existence.

France knew there was no need to be frightened—this was nothing but a dream, after all, he couldn’t be hurt—but he was still a bit reluctant to crouch and peer beneath the table. What he saw, however, made his misgivings briefly vanish. Beneath the table, difficult to make out properly in the shadow, skin pale and eyes dark, looking completely horrified, was a young boy. He sat with his arms wrapped tight around his knees, trembling dreadfully in a torn white frock—which France immediately recognized from the eighteenth century, back when boys waited until the age of seven for their breeching, the trading-in of skirts for trousers. The little boy shrank back when he saw France and advised in a haunted whisper, “Get out.”

But France could only smile. He recognized this boy. He had cut his hair and let him borrow beautiful clothes when they were young. He’d grown up alongside him, the boy who stood and waved on those white cliffs. Nostalgia lifted like the phoenix within France’s chest, spreading its wings to fill him with warmth. He knelt slowly, making himself seem small, welcoming, and held out a hand. “It is alright, England. I won’t hurt you.”

Little England hesitated, clearly torn between trusting France and being too terrified to move. Then, a piano struck a hideously loud note in the ballroom, and the poor boy yelped and rushed forward, past France’s extended hand to wrap his arms around the older nation’s neck, burying his face against his shirt. He shook in France’s arms and whispered, “Th-there’s scary things in there. Get out, please. Don’t go in the rooms.” He could barely be heard over the growling thunder outside and the blaring piano in the ballroom, the doorway of which now let a sickly light shine through, flickering a bit as though people moved inside . . .

France’s brow furrowed in confusion. He wrapped his arms around Little England and stood, holding the small boy against him. It was strange, seeing England like this after centuries of seeing him as the grown man he was now. America and Canada had probably never thought of their parents as children; they viewed all the European countries as old men—older and harder to understand the further east you went. He wondered if this said something about him psychologically, dreaming about a frightened baby England. Hopefully it meant he wanted to protect him. Cod psychology was England’s wont, not France’s, so he simply moved toward the lit doorway and whispered, “Shhh, it will be alright. I have you.” (If only the real child-England had been so reliant on France for comfort . . .) France stepped close to the wall. He knew he couldn’t be hurt, but England’s fear was palpable enough to affect him. Cautiously, he leant to peek into the ballroom.

The piano was deafening inside, and though no one sat at it, it played a horrible, discordant tune that sounded less like an organ and more like the worst parts of a violin. Beneath the eery song, the sound of choking and gagging was audible. These nasty sounds came from the people, for there were indeed people moving about in the room. They were dressed immaculately (by English standards), draped in gold and jewels, suits pressed and dresses flowing as they waltzed across the ballroom floor, hands clasped elegantly. It would appear to be a typical ball, if not for one thing: their faces. Deathly pale and turning blue by the second, eyes bulging desperately, lips all spread wide as they gasped and gasped for air. Aristocrats, strangled by their own formality.

Little England, hearing the sounds of death, pleaded softly, “Don’t go in! They’re scary!”

France looked down at the wide green eyes of the little boy in his arms, his own blue eyes bright with concern and their fair share of fear. This dream was quickly revealing itself to be a nightmare. But still, there was something very off about this. France had plenty of nightmares stored in the darker corners of his mind—many of them involved Germany, and a couple involved England, but in an entirely different way—but this was not like them. France didn’t really want to go into the room, but the mystery of this place prodded at him. _And it’s only a dream. Only a nightmare._ So he gently pried England’s tiny hands from his shoulders and set him down on the floor. “I will be right back. I just want to see if I can help them.”

Little England sat down, cowering against the wall with his hands over his ears, to block out the music or the choking or both.

France had barely taken two steps into the ballroom before the waltzing dandies noticed him, and they all froze in their dance, attention snapping to the intruder. The piano gave a final shrieking wail, then fell silent. While France looked on, the aristocrats’ faces became more and more normal—finally comfortable with themselves now that they had someone lesser to compare to. Vicious whispers in posh accents, rising in volume and swirling around France like a buzzing swarm of bees.

“Hideous clothes.”

“So French.”

“Inappropriate.”

“Underdressed.”

“Disgustingly sluttish.”

“Simply poor.”

“Bad hair.”

“Expected more.”

“Unproper.”

“Unorthodox.”

“Doesn’t deserve to be here.”

“Get out.”

“Get out.”

“GET. OUT.”

They all screamed at the top of their lungs, rushing forward with arms outstretched, and the piano roared one terrible key that had Little England running in, grabbing France’s hand, and tugging him across the hall to the parlor. The door slammed behind them, and all was quiet; no thunder, no piano, no screaming, just the frightened panting of France and his tiny companion. Bending down, France lifted Little England back into his arms, wanting to comfort him as much as wanting to be comforted himself. _Just a dream. I’m asleep right now._ He focused on how warm and delicate the boy was in his arms, trembling against him. He’d always loved children; England (adult England) claimed America and Canada would never learn to walk, because France was loathe to ever put them down. He especially loved to hold Canada and kiss the boy’s maple-scented curls. Little England didn’t smell like that, or like America’s sweet grass. These days England smelled like tea, but as a child he smelled like the ocean. He was an island, after all. _Black sheep of Europe._ No wonder he hated being called that. But he and France were endlessly tied, even if they were not geographically connected. After all, France smelt of roses, and what was his national flower? The iris. What was England’s?

Flowers were not on either nation’s mind at present. The real mansion’s parlor was lovely in gilt wallpaper and rolled-arm sofas, with paintings of deer in forest glens and unicorns beneath waterfalls. But now all of that was gone, replaced with mirrors. It was completely filled with mirrors of all shape and size, all aimed toward the one chair in the middle of the room, with a back so high France couldn’t see who was sitting in it. In the mirrors, there were a hundred different Englands. Tiny and curious and fearful, identical to the one in France’s arms. Teenage, lanky and awkward and face full of uncertainty and self-loathing. Present, bushy eyebrows quick to angle in anger, physique feminine, a very pretty Englishman even if he hated to admit it. And, strangest for France, a few of the mirrors reflected an elder England, lines of time wrinkling his face, green eyes milky and unseeing after seeing so many things.

Little England hugged France tighter and whispered into his ear, “They’ve gone back to dancing now. Let’s leave, before he hears . . .”

France tore his gaze away from the menagerie of Englands to look at the boy in his arms. What _was_ all this? Why would all of this be in his mind? Through the confusion, he obeyed his small guide and opened the door. His response was not much of a whisper. “Who?”

As they left the parlor, the door creaked noisily, and Little England gasped. He looked slowly back, toward the chair in the middle of the room, absolute dread on his face. France followed his gaze, heart shivering with apprehension.

Around the arm of the chair, pale finger bones wrapped, and a moment later, a skull the color of a lonely moon peered around the edge of the chair, eye sockets wide and bare and nothing but darkness. It was not recognizable as a person, and yet France knew. It was England.

Little England screamed. “Close the door! Get out!”

The skeleton’s jaw swung open without a sound, and a hand lifted to wave at them, face nothing but a horror, a horror, and then a narrow linkage of finger bones pointed upward, at the ceiling—at the room above this one, England’s study.

“Close it! _Please_!”

France came to his senses and slammed the door home. This was by far the most visceral nightmare he’d ever had. But he was beginning to wonder if perhaps this nightmare didn’t belong to him. France wanted—needed, on a morbidly curious level—to know what would happen if he went where the skeleton gestured. So he climbed the groaning stairs and walked down the hall until he reached the closed study door.

As he suspected, Little England cringed against him fearfully, unwilling to even look at the door. “Don’t go inside. Please don’t.”

France held him close, gently stroking the boy’s back. “I just want to have a _petit_ peek, alright? Just for a second, I promise.”

Little England whimpered, but he nodded miserably and hid his face in France’s neck.

France opened the door of the study. Normally, there would be shelves of books along the right wall, a huge map of the world covering the left, and a mahogany desk in the center with a lamp, the soft golden light of which often made England nod off midway through reading something. Now, the lamp gave a sickly white glow; the room was unrecognizable in nearly complete shadow, but the figure standing in the middle was unmistakable. Tall, thin but broad-shouldered, the outline of jagged hair and the wicked curve of a battle axe.

Despite the years, decades, centuries that lay between now and what had happened so long ago, France still felt his blood run cold.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled in Denmark’s chest. “Come here, Danelagen. Come to Daddy Danmark.”

France felt Little England quivering uncontrollably against him; tears wetted the skin of his neck. France remembered clearly the first Viking attack on what would one day become England, back when the country was not a country but just a cluster of kingdoms. France stood by and watched Denmark and Norway take bits of England’s land for themselves. England was far too small to stop it himself, but France wasn’t much older, and he was undeniably interested in taking his share of the land. He was closer, after all; why did the Scandinavians think they deserved everything? But those were the old days, when everyone was young and starving for additional land, lusting to leave colonies wherever possible. An insatiable need that England would find soon enough as he grew, and a need that he would become infamous for. _The sun never sets on the British empire._ But France was one of the few people—or perhaps the only one—who knew that the sun _did_ set, and when it set, England—for all his colonies and commonwealth—was alone.

Denmark held out a hand, growing insistent. “Come, Danelagen. Now.”

England clung to France desperately. “Please, please, don’t let him take me!”

“Never,” France promised him, and lifted his chin to glare at Denmark. “Stay away from him, Dane. He does not belong to you anymore, and he never will.”

Denmark did not appreciate these remarks. A growl rumbled somewhere within the tall man, and behind him, the light went out. If France didn’t know better, he would have thought he was in the same room as a beast. Then, through the shadow, France saw eyes . . . glittering, savage, scarlet eyes . . .

France leapt back, slamming the door, and both he and Little England yelped when the furious bang of an axe hitting the door thundered out. France hugged the boy as close as he could, their hearts pounding together, watching the door with wide eyes. But, thankfully, it stayed closed.

Little England looked up at France, wiping tears from his eyes. “I told you there were scary things.”

As if on cue, the door at the very end of the hall swung open. The master bedroom. Little England drew in his breath and began squirming violently in France’s arm, face twisted and wet with desperation and tears. “No! Please! Not there! Anywhere but in there!”

But France had to know. He was sick with fear, and with the wrongness of this place, this lost dark corner of a mind that was not France’s. He strode down the hall with purpose, his fear hardening into resolve. He pushed the ajar door of the master bedroom—his room, the room he shared with his lover—fully open and nearly gagged from what he saw.

Blood.

On the bed, sprawled across it with a hand held out toward the door, covered in blood with his throat slashed open, was America. Lifeless.

Propped against the end of the bed, sitting up with his head flopped to the side at an impossible angle, pale golden curls tainted with black blood, was Canada. Dead.

And there, on the floor, eyes and mouth open wide in shocked agony, arms outspread and legs akimbo, heart carved out by a familiar cutlass lying in a puddle of gore beside him, was France himself.

Murdered.

France stepped back, closing his eyes even though he knew he would never be able to rid himself of the horrible image. His children, his beautiful Canada, his handsome America, slaughtered by a pirate’s blade. Not to mention himself, the look of betrayal still lingering in his lightless eyes. _How . . . Why . . ._ He could not comprehend this. This was no longer simply wrong. This was unthinkable.

In his arms, Little England sobbed. “I _told_ you!”

Before France could respond, a sharp, cold voice spoke behind them: “What are you doing here?”

Little England started, and France turned to see a blond man stepping toward them, blood coating his hands and staining his pirate garb, green eyes burning with anger.

England.

“What,” he demanded, eyes flashing, “are you bloody doing here?!”

But his attention was not on France. It was on the boy in his arms.

France stepped back again, holding the boy protectively and staring down the hall at England coming toward them. Quietly, he said, “England, _mon amour_ , it’s alright. He was already here. I am the one intruding.”

Little England cowered against France’s chest, but this only angered England more as he stepped toward them.

Ignoring France’s existence, England took a pistol from his belt and aimed it at the boy, fury radiating off of him; the white feather in his hat quivered with the force of his rage. “Get out of my head! You’re not me anymore! You’re a defenseless little child, and I am strong! I am an empire! Stop haunting me, you pathetic little waif! _GET OUT OF MY HEAD_!”

Little England burst into tears. “I can’t!”

France’s eyes widened and he turned sideways, trying to shield the boy from the Englishman’s view. “England. Stop this.”

England looked at France for the first time, and recognition flickered across his face, through the anger and sadness. He glanced past France, into the bedroom, where the same man lay dead, the same blood in his veins that coated England’s hands. Then England looked back to France, and he raised the gun to his temple.

“Get out,” he whispered miserably, and pulled the trigger.

France bolted upright in bed, a gasp ripping from his throat as he did. He was cold, sweat slicking his skin. Beside him, England propped his weight up on his elbow, looking concerned and exhausted with those dark smudges beneath his eyes—the same smudges France knew he was sporting right now. Neither of them had slept soundly, but it was not morning yet; they may be able to get a bit of peaceful rest in before the children woke.

“France,” England murmured, reaching to touch his lover’s stubbled cheek. “Are you alright?”

France nodded, and leant to tenderly kiss England’s forehead. “I’m fine.” As he lay back down again and England snuggled against his chest, he whispered, “Only a bad dream.”

 

_The End._


End file.
